I find it hard to shake the feeling of fundamental wrongness.
We move through the jungle, brushing aside huge elephant's ear ferns, and crushing grasses into the rich loam beneath our booted feet... and then, as often as not, we come to a solid ceramic-metal wall, or a descending ramp, and it becomes blindingly apparent that this wilderness is a made thing, an artifact. The sun shines, brightly, overhead, making our shadows inky pools beneath our feet. It has been shining overhead for hours, and it always will. It never moves.
Whatever our cultural and ethnic backgrounds, all of us are members of species that evolved on planets... planets with regular day-night cycles, with genuine, authentic wilderness. The constant noon inside this gigantic artificial world is... psychologically unsettling.
It is a minor point, perhaps. It does not seem to be affecting my companions, at present. Perhaps, in the longer term, studies should be done on adjustment to these conditions. It is not a priority for the Alliance at the moment; there are too many other calls on our resources.
And the psychological effect is not affecting me, because I will not let it. I am trained in the discipline of Kolinahr, and my mind is mine to command. I have a mission to carry out, and the suspension of the diurnal cycle is not relevant.
The six of us advance cautiously into the jungle, anonymous in silver-white MACO armour and reflective helmets. Actually, that is not strictly accurate. Lieutenant Vasque is identifiable by the specialist equipment strapped to his back. And Commander Chalha, our local guide from Solanae Alliance Command, is easily spotted by her typical Tellarite physique. But the rest of us - myself, Twosani Dezin, and Chalha's two assistants, Lieutenants Curnow and Lerner - are simply mirror-masked white shapes, intimidating in our sameness.
Fortunately, our mission parameters do not include public relations.
Chalha stops, and holds out a hand, palm out, indicating that we are to halt, too. The six of us crouch down. "Got something," the Tellarite's voice says quietly through my earpiece.
"Our target?"
"Something bloody big, anyway. Careful, now."
I engage the motion tracker on my HUD, and the virtual screen of my helmet shimmers in a riot of colours before the computer filters out the random movements of vegetation in the breeze. Chalha is right - there is a large creature, moving slowly, some ninety metres from our current position. I flip open my tricorder and tie in the specialist sensor package. "Confirmed," I say. "Proceed to intercept."
We unsling our phaser rifles and edge cautiously forwards. It would be best to take the creature by surprise, but I doubt that will be possible. Even without their cybernetic augmentations, the Voth dinosaurs are predators, with keen senses and hunting instincts.
"It's a big one," Chalha mutters. "Rex Carcer?" I do not know why people find it necessary to name the large furiadons encountered in the wilderness, but it seems to have become a custom.
The motion tracker shows the beast abruptly coming to a halt. "I think it has scented us," I say.
"Move in, fast!" Chalha orders. We abandon caution and sprint forwards.
We meet the beast in a clearing among the trees. The furiadon is massive, at least four metres tall, and heavy enough that I can feel the ground shake as it lumbers towards us. Slit-pupilled reptilian eyes glare at us, and the cybernetic implants beside them flash with light.
"Fire!" Chalha yells.
Six MACO battle rifles blaze out as one, sizzling ropes of golden light lashing out at the beast's hide. The furiadon bellows, a hoarse blaring sound. We fire again. The high-intensity stun beams would suppress the neural activity of a humanoid target, permanently. The beast seems - no more than stung.
The head turns from side to side, and then its gaze locks on me.
It is assessing the situation correctly. My MACO gear has been the subject of several experimental enhancements which, among other things, increase the energy output of the battle rifle. The furiadon has correctly identified me as the most significant threat facing it. I suppose it is a testimony to the efficiency of the Voth cybernetic systems.
The furiadon roars again, its rank carnivore breath now distinctly perceptible to my sense of smell. It bares teeth as long as my hand, but they are not the threat. I fling myself forward as the skull-mounted cannons try to lock onto me and fire. A scarlet blaze of antiproton energy sears over my head, to turn the vegetation behind me into steam and ash.
It is a clear danger, but also an opportunity. As I land on the grass, I bring the rifle to firing position. I have only a fraction of a second, and the target is not a large one - but I succeed. The beam from my rifle passes between the fearsome teeth and straight into the furiadon's mouth. The dinosaurian skull lights up like a jack o'lantern, and then it topples and slumps sideways. The stun beam must have directly transected the brain stem; there was no way it could fail to render the creature unconscious.
Briefly unconscious - from what we know, very briefly. I rise to my feet. "Mr. Vasque. Suppression systems. Now."
Vasque reacts quickly. He unslings the backpack and places the suppression unit on the furiadon's head, just behind and below the metal skullcap that supports the cranial implants. If we are correct in our analyses of the salvaged Voth technology, this will temporarily override the neural signals from the implants, disabling the creature's built-in weaponry, eliminating the Voth's programmed control over the furiadon's brainwaves, while at the same time paralyzing the creature's voluntary muscles. If we are correct. If we are not, we will shortly be in the presence of a fully aware, fully armed, and extremely irritated furiadon.
It would be preferable to be correct.
"I think we've got it, sir," says Vasque. "Readouts are... nominal."
"Excellent." I kneel down beside the furiadon's head. This close, the smell of meat on its breath is almost overpowering. I take off my helmet, draw off my suit's gloves. "Brainwave activity?"
"Thirty per cent of normal," Vasque says. "Rising."
"Sir." A touch on my shoulder: Twosani Dezin. I turn towards her. My exec's face is concealed beneath the mirrored MACO helmet, but I know there is concern showing in her black Betazoid eyes. "Sir, are you sure -?"
"I am," I say. "This needs to be attempted by a telepath trained in strict mental discipline. Your skills lie in other directions, Commander."
"Stupid idea anyway," I hear Chalha mutter under her breath. It is typical Tellarite behaviour, from a culture which values argument and dissent. It is not a meaningful criticism, and I ignore it. I flex my fingers.
"Brainwave activity now at sixty percent," Vasque reports. "I'm getting some spikes in the limbic system - don't think they're natural - backup system is trying to bring the cybernetics back online -"
It will probably soon succeed. Voth technology is highly advanced, and we do not yet understand it fully. The furiadon's eyelids flicker - an involuntary response, as it nears wakefulness. I reach out and put my hand on the scaly head, between the eyes. The hide of the furiadon is tough, pebbly in texture, surprisingly warm. I focus my mind.
One reptile eye flutters open.
"Your mind to my mind," I murmur, "my thoughts to your thoughts...."
And there is PAIN and RAGE and NO ORDERS THERE ARE NO ORDERS BUT THERE ARE ALWAYS ORDERS BUT NOW THERE ARE NO ORDERS and I am filled with HUNGER and ANGER and the urge to KILL AND EAT -
Something made of meat is holding me and I struggle. I bare my fangs at it and it makes a noise I do not understand. The meat thing is silver and white and it has no face, but in the gleaming surface of its head I see something distorted, pink and red -
Focus.
The pink thing is my face, the red is my hair, reflected in Twosani Dezin's helmet. The noise is speech... most of it is speech, but some is an inarticulate roar, and that is coming from my own throat. Focus. The discipline of the Kolinahr is ingrained within me, I am master of my own mind, my own thoughts.... I push the animal thoughts of the furiadon away, and the fury and hunger subsides within me, and the roaring stops. I can make out Twosani's words.
"- control, sir, get control! T'Pia! Are you all right?"
"I am," I croak. I clear my throat with a cough. "My apologies, Commander. The furiadon's mind is an intense experience. I have regained control."
Again, I cannot see her eyes behind the visor, but I can feel them searching mine. "Sir, are you sure?"
"I am." My voice and gaze are both level. I have control. My thoughts are my own, my mind is my own. I straighten up. Twosani has been holding me; now, a little reluctantly, she lets go.
The furiadon is lying on the ground, twitching slightly. Between the phaser stun, the suppression device, and now the aftereffects of the mind-meld, its nervous system must be in poor shape.
"It is not sentient," I say. "I can confirm that, now. The intelligent stratagems the creatures have employed... these must be ascribed to the expert systems in the onboard cybernetics. The furiadon itself is - not sentient. It is low even on animal scales of consciousness, merely hunger and... anger."
Twosani's helmet tilts; she is studying the creature. "If someone did all that to me," she says, "I'd be angry, too."
"The cybernetic implants must frequently overrule the furiadon's natural instincts," I say. I pick up my gloves and helmet, draw on the gloves. "That must cause intense frustration." I settle the helmet on my head, and become faceless and anonymous like the others.
If there is any strain in my face, any emotion in my eyes, it will not show, now.
"The furiadon is an animal. Its strategic thinking is governed by its onboard computer. The systems synergize, to some extent, with the creature's innate hunting instincts - there would be no point to using an animal, otherwise, instead of a pure mechanism - but they do not depend on any sentient brain function of the animal's own. In fact, the implants must tend to suppress the development of the furiadon's own intelligence and initiative." I look down at the twitching creature. "Those are not qualities which the Voth value in a servitor.... The mechanisms, and the consciousness of the furiadon, are consistent with Admiral Sturak's earlier observations of the smaller dankanasaurs. Clearly, this is the preferred Voth methodology in cyborgizing dinosaurs." I take a deep breath. "This being the case, I will advise Alliance Joint Command not to make any especial effort to administer sapience tests to a Viriosaurus Rex."
"It's just an animal," says Chalha.
"That is a sufficient summary."
Chalha says nothing. She makes an adjustment to her phaser rifle. I know what is coming: I step back.
Chalha brings the rifle to her shoulder and fires. The weapon is set for destructive force. She plays the beam over the length of the furiadon, back and forth, for several seconds, until the animal is reduced to nothing more than a heap of smoking meat.
From the suffering I saw in its rudimentary mind, it might even be grateful. I say nothing.
"We should get back to the forward base, sir," says Twosani. "And then beam back to the ship - and then, sir, I think you should be fully checked out in sickbay. I know about your Kolinahr discipline, but -"
"It is a reasonable precaution," I say. "I concur with your assessment. Mr. Vasque. Please recover any undamaged equipment from the creature, and we will then return to base."
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